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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25061983">Doom &amp; Despair Never Take a Holiday (2020)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi'>okapi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>July Watson's Woes Prompts [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crack, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phobias, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement, Slice of Life, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2020, Wing!fic (Chapter 5)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:56:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,290</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25061983</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Fills for the 2020 DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts.</p><p>20. <b>New Client.</b> A new client shows up at Baker Street looking for her missing niece. A crossover with <i>Wonder Woman</i> [2017, film]. Gen.<br/>21. <b>Dialogue.</b> Alpha Holmes finds Omega Watson in a summerhouse. Omegaverse. Rating: Teen. Dialogue only.<br/>22. <b>Montague Street.</b>  Passing by Montague Street, Holmes contemplates the path his life has taken. Gen.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>July Watson's Woes Prompts [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/501883</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Watson's Woes JWP Collection: 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Sisyphean Breakfast</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> Sisyphean Breakfast<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>Characters:</b> Watson &amp; Holmes<br/><b>Length:</b> 500<br/><b>Notes:</b> A slice of domesticity. <br/><b>Prompt:</b> Creative Machinery: Take inspiration from the following (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5LC8PYq_VS0">video</a>)<br/>video for today's work.<br/><b>Summary:</b> Watson ponders breakfast.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Watson arrived at the breakfast table a few minutes earlier than was his custom. The morning newspapers were folded and stacked neatly to one side of the table, resting between the place where he sat and the place where Holmes sat. </p>
<p>Watson smiled at the newspapers. Though fully awake, he was not yet ready to be informed of the day’s troubles so he did not reach for a paper but rather let his thoughts wander where they may. </p>
<p>Unsurprisingly, perhaps, they wandered to breakfast that awaited him. <br/>
Watson’s mind conjured up a kitchen with Mrs. Hudson and Bessie the housemaid as cheerful automatons in a room of cheerful automatons. The scene was like that of an orchestra. </p>
<p>Instruments. Pots and pans and knives and plates. </p>
<p>Sounds. A kettle whistled. A frying pan sizzled. There was the crack of an egg on the edge of bowl. There was the clatter of teacups and saucers and spoon on a tray. </p>
<p>Everything was moving in perfect order. Everything was moving in a precise yet unhurried rhythm. Everything was moving in harmony with everything else. Everything was moving like the parts of a machine, like parts of an engine. </p>
<p>And soon, Watson would have before him the fruits of that motion, a clockwork breakfast. </p>
<p>The eggs. The bacon. The toast. The butter and marmalade. Perhaps a kipper or a tomato or a bit of mushrooms and onion. </p>
<p>The tea. Ah, the tea. </p>
<p>Watson knew, deep down, that he was very privileged to be able sit at the table and ponder such things. Mrs. Hudson and Bessie were not automatons; they were two very hard-working individuals. He did not take them for granted nor did he fail to appreciate their work. </p>
<p>“Watson!”</p>
<p>Watson was jolted out of his reverie by the appearance of Holmes dashing into the room from the door. </p>
<p>Watson was startled at first. He’d assumed Holmes had had a late night at his work bench and was having a lie-in. </p>
<p>“Get your coat, my dear man! The game’s afoot! We’ve just enough time to get to Victoria Station.” </p>
<p>“But Holmes,” Watson protested, gesturing to the empty table, “breakfast!”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Holmes waved his hand dismissively, “I thought it highly probable based on the telegram I received from Roberts yesterday evening that we should have to have an early start today.”</p>
<p>“You could have mentioned the fact!”</p>
<p>“I did. To Mrs. Hudson so that she and Bessie wouldn’t go to their usual trouble this morning. Oh, don’t look so disheartened, my dear man. The case may prove to have quite a few features of interest. I’ll give you a full briefing on the way.”</p>
<p>“But…!”</p>
<p>“You can breakfast on the train. Come!” He threw my coat at me.</p>
<p>I harrumphed as I got to my feet and slipped on my coat. A train breakfast, indeed!</p>
<p>My stomach rumbled, and I don’t know that the sound wasn’t like that Greek fellow’s boulder coming crashing down the mountain. </p>
<p>Nevertheless, I followed Holmes out of the door. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Ophidiophobia (Watson Whump. Pining!Holmes. H/C. Snakes.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> Ophidiophobia<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>Length:</b> 1200<br/><b>Characters:</b> Watson, Holmes<br/><b>Notes/Warnings:</b> Snakes! Pining!Holmes. Hurt/comfort. POV Holmes. Watson/OMC [past]. Post-"The Speckled Band"<br/><b>Prompt:</b> Phobias Redux:: Either Watson or Holmes has a phobia. Who is it, why do they have it, and how did the other discover it?<br/><b>Also for:</b> DW shortfics comm prompt #65: comforting words and gestures<br/><b>Summary:</b> The Stoke Moran case awakens in Watson a past trauma.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Comforting words and gestures were fluttering around the attic of my mind like so many moths. <br/><br/>The squeaks and the creaks of the stairs told me that Watson had descended from his bedroom and stopped abruptly and turned. <br/><br/>“Please.” <br/><br/>The noise of the stairs ceased. <br/><br/>Good. I had his attention.<br/><br/>“I am at your service, my dear man, if it would do any good to talk about what’s troubling you. A burden shared is halved and so forth.” <br/><br/>“I shouldn’t wish to disturb your work, Holmes.”<br/><br/>“The only work I was about,” I rose from the bench and strode purposefully to the unlocked tantalus, “was ruminating on how I might best help my friend.”<br/><br/>He snorted. “And I here I was thinking that I hadn’t betrayed myself.”<br/><br/>I looked at him, my hand hovering over the decanters. My fingers seemed to decide of their own accord, ‘whiskey, not brandy.’ I poured two drinks and handed him one. <br/><br/>“I am an observant man at all times and ever more so when it is someone,” I left certain words unsaid, “for whom I have the greatest regard. For the past three nights, you have slept very poorly, indeed, my dear fellow.” <br/><br/>Watson made no reply but settled in his armchair. <br/><br/>He took a sip. He grunted. He stared at the fire. <br/><br/>I took my place in my own armchair.<br/><br/>“Has it to do with the case?” I prompted. “The business at Stoke Moran?” <br/><br/>He smiled and set his glass down on the small table between us. “Yes.” He rubbed his face with his hand. “You will think less of me, Holmes. I know you will.”<br/><br/>“No,” I assured him.<br/><br/>“You will,” he insisted. He drank like a soldier drinks and drained the glass. <br/><br/>I rose and fetched the decanter. I refilled his glass and set the decanter between us. My own drink remained untouched. <br/><br/>Watson sighed, then he took a deep breath, his shoulders lifting, his nose making a wheezy noise. <br/><br/>“I thought I had buried a feeling and the memories associated with it. I thought I had entombed it all. I thought it was locked away, and then, when I least suspected, the lock was picked, the lid of the tomb was pried open, and it rushed at me, like an angry ghost.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Fanciful, no?”<br/><br/>“Not at all,” I managed, hiding my face in my glass and welcoming the burn of the whiskey along my throat. I knew all too well what Watson was describing. “I believe the phenomenon you describe is common.”<br/><br/>“Indeed?” <br/><br/>I watched the possibility cross his face like a cloud on the horizon.<br/><br/>“Something about the Roylott case ‘picked the lock’ in your case, and now you are suffering from unpleasant memories. They are manifesting as nightmares.”<br/><br/>He nodded and swallowed another mouthful of spirit. “Precisely.” He let the glass fall hard on the table and leaned forward, his head in his hands. “Oh, God.” <br/><br/>“I do not think less of you, Watson.” I imagined my words a caressing hand. <br/>He sniffed and turned to lift his eyes to mine. “We are speaking in abstracts.” <br/><br/>I shrugged. “Even if we were not.”<br/><br/>“No, no,” Watson persisted. Then he sighed and looked at the fire.<br/><br/>“What is it, old man?” I pleaded. <br/><br/>“It’s the bloody snake!” Watson leapt to his feet and bounded to the fire, leaning, his hand on the mantelpiece. “The bloody snake!” He looked over his shoulder at me. <br/><br/>Something raw knotted inside me. <br/><br/>“I am so very sorry, Watson.”<br/><br/>“You couldn’t have known!”<br/><br/>“But If I’d made you privy to my deductions, you might have been spared this torment.” <br/><br/>Watson shook his head, then dropped it to look at the fire. “It wouldn’t have mattered; I belong at your side.”<br/><br/>I was grateful that his back was turned. There was no opportunity for him to perceive the shiver and the flush that his words provoked. I was myself again by the time he faced me. <br/><br/>“A childhood incident?” <br/><br/>He dropped back into his armchair and drank deeply before saying, “If only. But, no, there’s no excuse. I was a man!” He thumped his chest. “A man!” Then he seemed to deflate. “Oh, damn. A lad I knew died.” <br/><br/><em>A lad I knew.</em><br/><br/>The way Watson pronounced the words. The way he looked when he said them. <br/><br/>Never have I chosen my words more carefully.<br/><br/>“War is hell.” <br/><br/>Watson started and blinked. He twisted sharply in his chair to face me, his bent arm on the headrest, the hand curled at the side of his head. <br/><br/>That look of astonishment never, ever grew old. <br/><br/>“Holmes! You would’ve been burnt at the stake a hundred years ago!”<br/><br/>“There’s still time.” <br/><br/>That provoked a full-throated genuine laugh, and the tension shattered like glass. <br/><br/>“The speckled band was an Indian adder,” I remarked. <br/><br/>Watson nodded. “I killed one very much like it, but I could not save him. It could’ve been me, and if it weren’t for me, the lad might not have been stepping where he was.” He finished his whiskey. I did not pour him another. “But it was a small horror, in retrospect, because on its heels came Maiwand, and,” he made a vague gesture, “so I thought the whole matter dead and buried, but when I think of Miss Stoner’s poor sister and, believe it or not, the monster Roylott, I shudder and remember. What a pathetic fear!”<br/><br/>“I don’t think less of you, Watson.” <br/><br/>“It’s illogical.”<br/><br/>“On the contrary,” I retorted firmly. “But that doesn’t mean you need suffer.” I looked about me, and my eyes lit upon my violin case. “Why don’t you extend yourself on the sofa for the night, and I shall attempt to play charmer to serpentine nightmares?” <br/><br/>I heard the warmth in his voice as I went to my case and opened it. <br/><br/>“It’s worth trying. Music is supposed to soothe the savage beast.” <br/><br/>“Just so.” <br/><br/>And if Watson woke once, just once, that night, long after I had ceased my serenade, long after had dropped off to sleep myself in my armchair, which had been pulled close to the sofa in vigil fashion; and if I woke from my doze and flew to him from that armchair as he sat up, crying out and thrashing; and if I took him in my arms, and if he held me fiercely to him and buried his fingers in my hair and rubbed his whiskered lips across my nape; and if he called me ‘his dear boy’ and ‘his handsome lad’ and begged my forgiveness with tears dampening my neck; and if murmured against his cheek, over and over and over, that everything was all right, that I was all right, that all was forgiven, if I implored that he should break his heart over me no longer; and if I felt my dear Watson, after litanies of repetition, finally go boneless in my arms; and if I laid him gently back on the sofa and released him into a slumber that went undisturbed for the rest of the night and thenceforth; and if all that happened, well, what of it?<br/><br/>Nothing but comforting words and gestures.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Summer (ACD. Holmes/Watson. Sussex 'verse. Rating: Teen)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> Summer<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD - Sussex Retirement 'verse<br/><b>Pairing:</b> Holmes/Watson<br/><b>Rating:</b> Teen<br/><b>Length:</b> 440<br/><b>Summary:</b> Holmes ogles a shirtless Watson working in the garden.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I bless this infernally hot July. </p>
<p>Though the rising mercury has brought about blistered skin and damp clothes and restless nights and a near constant anxiety for the wellbeing of my hives, it has also brought about the delectable phenomenon of Watson tending his half of our little Eden shirtless. </p>
<p>At a certain point in the morning, after several hours of toil for we rise early these days, it is my beloved’s custom to strip himself to the waist and hang his garment on the handle of a staked shovel and continue his work without comment. </p>
<p>He was brown as a nut when I met him, and I don’t know that he shan’t be again by August.</p>
<p>It is, in a word, a sinful delight to watch him move amongst what I teasingly call his ‘gillyflower realm’ with the sunlight kissing skin and his muscles rippling and the sweat beading and rolling down, down, down….</p>
<p>And I know I am not alone in my appreciation of the spectacle. Widow Livingston surprised us one day by appearing at the gate with a basket of plump apricots which she wished to trade for a selection of Watson’s equally handsome tomatoes, and I thought I might have to fetch the smelling salts. Luckily for Watson, our neighbour is the type who keeps herself to herself, so the incident did not result in a bevy of looky-loo’s dropping by unexpectedly. </p>
<p>This day begins like every other, but my attention is so absorbed between my duties as beekeeper and the welcome chore of snatching glances at a half-nude Watson as he reaches to trim the climbing rose trellis and stoops to weed the cabbage bed and pauses to inhale the near intoxicating scent of jasmine, that I, Sherlock Holmes, world-renown for my powers of observation, miss the swift arrival of dark clouds on the horizon.</p>
<p>The first drops assault with all the violence and shock of a mad garrotter in the fog, and within a minute, it is clear that this will be no gentle storm. </p>
<p>I make for the shed. So does Watson. </p>
<p>He is laughing as the cooling rains tap the tin roof.</p>
<p>“I forgot my shirt!”</p>
<p>“No matter,” I murmur in a tone that leaves no doubt as to how I’d like to pass our exile. </p>
<p>He smiles a wicked smile and folds into my arms as neat as rose petals, and his skin is so warm it is as if he brought summer itself with him, carrying it on him, as part of him, into this dark, damp, earth-scented shelter.</p>
<p>I bow lips to bare shoulder and bless this infernally hot July.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Hole (ACD. Sussex 'verse. Gen. Crack. Dialogue only.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> Hole<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD - Sussex 'verse<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>Length:</b> 200<br/><b>Notes:</b> Dialogue only. Suggestion of the supernatural. Crack. The language of flowers.<br/><b>For:</b> DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts: picture prompt of a hole<br/><b>Summary:</b> Watson is making a curious nosegay.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“That is a very curious nosegay you’re making, Watson.”</p><p>“Yes, it is, isn’t it? Would you oblige by tying the string while I hold the stems?”</p><p>“Certainly.”</p><p>“Thank you. Yes, a few oak leaves for hospitality. Yellow violets for rustic happiness. American starwort, or as close as I could get, for welcome to a stranger.”</p><p>“Hmm. I have not heard of any newcomer to the area.”</p><p>“That is because you have been at your hives since I returned from my morning ramble. On my return, I spied a hole in the ground on the edge of the woods which I swear was not there two days ago.”</p><p>“What kind of hole?”</p><p>“A natural-looking hole, meaning not made by a shovel or pick, but it is too large to be a rabbit’s den or fox’s burrow. And the entrance is too wide for a mole, unless we happen to have preternaturally massive ones roaming the Sussex forests. And there was something else. There was a light on.”</p><p>“A light on?”</p><p>“In the hole.”</p><p>“Dear me. That’s something.”</p><p>“Yes, so this is sort of a welcome-to-the-neighbourhood-please-don’t-curse-us offering.”</p><p>“Very wise. Do you think a bit of honeycomb would be appreciated?”</p><p>“It couldn’t hurt.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Empty Nest (ACD. Wing!fic.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> The Empty Nest<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD - Wing!fic AU<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>Length:</b> 1100<br/><b>Pairing:</b> Holmes/Watson<br/><b>Notes:</b> This is an AU created by LJ's rachelindeed in <a href="https://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1656885.html">Stormy Petrels</a>. Holmes has the wings of a goshawk, and Watson has the wings of a skylark.<br/><b>For:</b> DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompt #6: Nighttime Doings:: It's the middle of the night. Why is screaming coming from Baker Street?<br/><b>Also for:</b> DW shortfic prompt .054: Like birds in a storm</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><a id="cutid1" name="cutid1"></a><br/>
Like birds in a storm, it sounds like.<br/>
<br/>
I suppose that’s what the residents of Baker Street said to once another when they heard the scream in the middle of the night.<br/>
<br/>
I’d made that scream. I was the bird in the storm.<br/>
<br/>
I had sounded the alarm, the shrill call used infrequently by goshawks to indicate that pursuit will be lengthy and that the prey is aware of the predator. I could only manage a scream like that once. My throat burned too badly from the force to repeat it.<br/>
<br/>
But, thankfully, only once was required.<br/>
<br/>
A few moments of confusion followed as the trio of would-be invaders were forced to alter their plans. They were no longer involved in a surprise siege of the quiet nest of 221B. They were now drawn into an aerial battle in the skies over central London. Their intelligence had led them to anticipate the quick evisceration of a mild-mannered skylark-winged physician named Watson, the companion of the infamous and crafty goshawk-winged detective, Sherlock Holmes. Holmes himself, they believed, had been lured away under false pretenses. The murder of a nest-mate was, to the simple but cruel-minded blackguards, revenge enough for the destruction of their late benefactor, one Charles Augustus Milverton.<br/>
<br/>
I took advantage of the chaos and pumped hard, harder than I’d ever pumped before in my life, showing the black-and-white barred underside of wings and sharp talon boots. In case the rogues were in any doubt, I flashed of a hooked beak-like blade which told them they were dealing with a true hawk and no songbird.<br/>
<br/>
C’mon, lads, catch me if you can, I silently taunted as I led them on a merry chase.<br/>
<br/>
Up, up, up.<br/>
<br/>
The three swiftly recovered their wits and began their pursuit in earnest.<br/>
I circled. I dove. I cut my turns as close as I dared to the brick of the rooftops.<br/>
<br/>
I twisted. I curled.<br/>
<br/>
I was quick. I was bold.<br/>
<br/>
But I was only one, and they were a relentless three.<br/>
<br/>
I dodged and leapt and swooped until my back and chest ached.<br/>
<br/>
And all the while, I was listening, listening, listening.<br/>
<br/>
And then I heard it.<br/>
<br/>
Faint but familiar.<br/>
<br/>
Gek-gek-gek.<br/>
<br/>
My cue.<br/>
<br/>
I headed directly for a pair of very tall buildings across the street.<br/>
<br/>
I went up, up, up, but I was could not maintain the frenzied pace.<br/>
<br/>
I could feel the three on my tail feathers.<br/>
<br/>
One last lunge toward the moon, a twist, and then I fell, down, down, down, barreling head-first toward the ground, threading myself between the two buildings.<br/>
<br/>
I shook, a sharp motion which divested me of false wings, belly padding, talon boots.<br/>
<br/>
I dropped the hooked blade, too.<br/>
<br/>
WHOOSH!<br/>
<br/>
I slipped through the largest hole in a net which sprang up to span the second floor of the buildings.<br/>
<br/>
I was so focused on not crashing to my death that I scarcely heard the screams of my pursuers as they found themselves trapped in the net, which closed around them tight.<br/>
<br/>
I did not crash.<br/>
<br/>
I turned just in time and shot out from the alley. I used the last of my strength to make for the open window of 221B.<br/>
<br/>
“Doctor Watson!” cried Mrs. Hudson.<br/>
<br/>
“Chirrup,” I warbled.</p>
<hr/><p>“Watson! You were absolutely magnificent!”<br/>
<br/>
Holmes was rubbing a strong-smelling unguent into my back with a ferocity equal to the enthusiasm of his praise.<br/>
<br/>
“The night helped,” I croaked. “No one could mistake a lark for a hawk during daylight, even with a world-class disguise.”<br/>
<br/>
“Perhaps. But that doesn’t diminish the grandness of your performance. I never want to hear any more about the stage’s loss when I became a detective. You! You, my dear man, are an actor who suffers for his art.”<br/>
<br/>
I groaned. “Those wings were heavy, Holmes.” I looked over my shoulder and quirked a smile. “But we got ‘em, no?”<br/>
<br/>
He grinned. “Yes, they were the last of Milverton’s gang and shall trouble us no more, though why they should pledge such devotion to a misery-peddler who regarded them as nothing more than cannon fodder in his war to become even richer, I don’t know. Lower?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes.”<br/>
<br/>
His fingers moved to my lower back. I hummed my appreciation.<br/>
<br/>
“I don’t like to think of our nest being targeted, Holmes. Most ungentlemanly.”<br/>
<br/>
“Indeed. No doubt those three were well indoctrinated into the foulness of their trade by their employer.”<br/>
<br/>
He stopped his massage to take up a steaming mug and press it into my hands. “Drink, Watson.”<br/>
<br/>
“I hate this tisane, Holmes,” I objected, precisely like a child confronted with medicine.<br/>
<br/>
“I know the taste is foul, but it is effective. I don’t mean to insult you after all your heroism tonight, but you sound more like a crow than a lark.”<br/>
<br/>
I chuckled. “That’s what you get when you make a songbird screech like a bird of prey: a corvid!”<br/>
<br/>
Holmes’s snicker turned into full-bellied laughter, and I joined him in his mirth.<br/>
<br/>
I drank the tisane as Holmes resumed his ministrations. The fire crackled. From the ground floor there sounded the soft noises of Mrs. Hudson closing up the kitchen and heading for her bed.<br/>
<br/>
“What became of the wings, Holmes? Did you collect them from the alley?”<br/>
<br/>
“The wings were ruined, I’m afraid, my dear man. The boots and blade, however, were salvaged.”<br/>
<br/>
“That is a pity. I know you paid a pretty penny for those wings. And they were such a good likeness to yours.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes, the work of the famous sculptor Monsieur Oscar Daedalus Meunier of Grenoble does not come cheap, and I daresay if that fine craftsman ever learned the fate of his creation, he would be most displeased, but the loss was all in a noble cause.”<br/>
<br/>
“True enough.”<br/>
<br/>
“Shall I, uh,” Holmes hesitated, “venture a bit of grooming or are you too sore?”<br/>
<br/>
I looked once more over my shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “I suppose I could stand a bit of grooming, especially if it comes with a finger of whiskey to drive the taste of that tisane out of my mouth.”<br/>
<br/>
“That can be arranged,” said Holmes, getting to his feet and heading for the tantalus.<br/>
<br/>
“But you must be gentle, Holmes.”<br/>
<br/>
Holmes stopped and turned abruptly. He was frowning. “Have I ever not been?” His voice was thick with concern.<br/>
<br/>
“Well…”<br/>
<br/>
I shot him a look and flapped my wings.<br/>
<br/>
“…I’ve already alarmed Baker Street once tonight. I shouldn’t like to scream again.”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, you wicked thing,” he murmured. Then he closed the distance between and silenced me with a kiss.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Say My Name. (Holmes/Watson. Drabble. Gen.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> Say My Name<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD<br/><b>Length:</b> 100<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>Pairing:</b> Holmes/Watson<br/><b>For:</b> DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompt #7: TICKY BOXES FOR THE WIN!!!:: You voted for it - you got it! Let your work today include a check box, tally mark, or other mark that records a preference.<br/><b>Summary:</b> Watson's keeping a record.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What are those marks in your note-book, Watson?”</p>
<p>“Scientific inquiry, Holmes.”</p>
<p>“I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”</p>
<p>“I’m recording the number of times you’ve called me by my Christian name. I’ve a hypothesis that it only occurs in times of extreme emotion. See, two fires, the time I was almost thrown from a train, the time I did fall into the Thames, and tonight…”</p>
<p>“…when you were taken hostage.”</p>
<p>“Yes.” </p>
<p>“Interesting. Shall I conduct a reverse study? I don’t think you’ve ever called me by my Christian name. Perhaps fear isn’t the stimulus.”</p>
<p>“There are other extreme emotions.”</p>
<p>“Let’s test it.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. A Whisper of Orange Blossom (Holmes/Watson. pre-Sussex. Gen.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> A Whisper of Orange Blossom<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD <br/><b>Length:</b> 300<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>Pairing:</b> Holmes/Watson<br/><b>Notes:</b> pre-Sussex. Dialogue only. <br/><b>For:</b> DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompt #8: A Floral Bouquet: Let anything involving flowers inspire you today. Wedding bouquet, funeral wreath, hay fever - all of flora is yours to explore!<br/><b>Summary:</b> Holmes explains how he can afford to buy the Sussex cottage outright.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“The Sussex place is ours, Watson.”</p>
<p>“Do you mean to say you bought it outright?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Dear me, Holmes. I apologise for my surprise. I knew your consulting paid very well on occasion and that you had put some by, but, well, I had no idea you were capable of such a large purchase.”</p>
<p>“I suppose it’s time to confess one source of my income.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, Holmes.”</p>
<p>“No, not ill-gotten gains. Very sweet-smelling, I assure you. Do you remember a set of malodorous experiments I conducted a couple of years back?”</p>
<p>“There have been so many, Holmes.”</p>
<p>“These drove you to lodge at your club for three nights in a row.”</p>
<p>“Ah, yes.”</p>
<p>“Well, my chemical investigations, though embarked upon for purely scientific reasons, let to something of a commercial success. To wit, I unintentionally created a formula which would eventually be known as A Whisper of Orange Blossom.”</p>
<p>“The perfume!”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“I remember the advertisements. ‘When her purity equals her loveliness.’” </p>
<p>“Precisely, though I hasten to add that I was only responsible for the process which extracted the scent from the flower, not the process of convincing young ladies and their sweethearts to buy it. Anyway, I sold the fruits of my labour and set the income derived from it aside in an account specifically designated for retirement, and now, well, we have a lovely place on the southern downs of Sussex in which to pass our golden year. I can keep my bees. You can tend your tomatoes. It shall be lovely, I think.”</p>
<p>“Oh, but Holmes, should we change the name of the place to Orange Blossom Nook or something?”</p>
<p>“Since there isn’t an orange blossom to be had for hundreds of miles, I don’t see why. Clover Cottage suits me.”</p>
<p>“It suits me as well!”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Silly Buggers. (Gen.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> Silly Buggers<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD<br/><b>Characters:</b> Mrs. Hudson, Bessie the Housemaid<br/><b>Length:</b> 200<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>For:</b> DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompt #10: Let's Play a Game: Today's prompt is another popular one from a previous JWP: games. <br/><b>Summary:</b> Bessie's wondering about what's going on in the sitting room.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Another tea tray, ma’am?”</p>
<p>“Yes, my dear,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Inspector Hopkins is expected.”</p>
<p>“Inspector Lestrade just left.”</p>
<p>“Yes, and I am given to understand that Inspector MacDonald will be arriving later as well as Inspector Gregson and Inspector Martin.” </p>
<p>“Each by himself?’</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“Each requiring a tea tray?”</p>
<p>“Or something stronger,” muttered Mrs. Hudson under her breath. “Or is that just me?” </p>
<p>“Uh, ma’am…”</p>
<p>“Yes?’ </p>
<p>“… the, uh, two ladies in the sitting room are…”</p>
<p>“Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson.”</p>
<p>“In ladies’ costume?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Matching ladies’ costume?”</p>
<p>“Well, not precisely. The dresses are similar but not the same. The hats, however, are identical. That is the crux of the matter. Mister Holmes claims he wears the crown better than Doctor Watson. Doctor Watson claims that he wears it best. So, they are letting Scotland Yard be the judge.” </p>
<p>Bessie fell silent.</p>
<p>Mrs. Hudson sighed. “Bessie, would you like to play a game?”</p>
<p>“Ma’am?”</p>
<p>“A game of murder?”</p>
<p>“Ma’am!” </p>
<p>“I say we solve Mister Holmes’s boredom problem by giving him something interesting to investigate.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Not Cricket (Holmes/Watson. Gen.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> Not Cricket<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>Length:</b> 200<br/><b>Pairing:</b> Holmes/Watson<br/><b>For:</b> DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompt #11: Over the Ropes: Watson's rugby-playing past is several times alluded to in canon. Write about a sporting woe for Watson, whether related to rugby or roller derby or something else..<br/><b>Notes:</b> Remember that time a cricket ball set ACD on fire? That.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Watson?”</p>
<p>“I know, I know. Bradley sent down a quick one, and it hit me in the thigh. A little occasional pain is one of the chances of the sport, Holmes, and normally I’d take it as cheerfully as I could, but this one grew sharp to the point of unbearable in a matter of seconds. It was then I realised that the ball had hit the tin vesta box in my pocket. The cricket ball had splintered the box and the matches were ablaze! I applied a bandage at the scene, but it’s a damned tiresome nuisance to say the very least.” </p>
<p>“Let me see these burns, Watson.”</p>
<p>“I’m the doctor, Holmes.” </p>
<p>"I insist."</p>
<p>“Very well. Mrs. Hudson and Bessie?”</p>
<p>“Not in.” </p>
<p>“Holmes, I’ve decided cricket is not my game. It never has been, really. Rugby is my game. And this is proof. I suppose I should change the bandage. Fetch my bag, will you?”</p>
<p>“Oh, Watson.”</p>
<p>“It’s not as bad as it looks.”</p>
<p>“It looks bloody awful. I shall devote myself to distracting you from the pain until it heals.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes? Playing your violin, reading aloud you latest monograph…”</p>
<p>“Or engaging in some less flammable indoor sport!” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Scene with an Asp (Gen.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> Scene with an Asp<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD<br/><b>Characters:</b> Holmes &amp; Watson<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>Length:</b> 470<br/><b>For:</b> For DW Watson's Woes prompt #12: From Kandahar to Tokyo: Set your offering in a locale other than England (or in the case of adaptations that have Holmes based in another<br/>country, that country) today.<br/><b>Notes:</b> This is a variation on a scene from <i>Death on the Nile</i> [1978, film version of the Agatha Christie novel] with the part of Hercule Poirot (Peter Ustinov) being played by Holmes and the part of Colonel Race (David Niven) being played by Watson.<br/><b>Summary:</b> Someone doesn't want Holmes to solve a murder on a holiday steamer up the Nile.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sun was hot on the Karnak, a pleasure steamer which was chugging slowly up the Nile. Holmes and I had both had reservations about traveling to Egypt, but it had turned out to be the perfect holiday for us. My convalescing lungs got a reprieve from London’s exacting winter, and Holmes and I both got to enjoy some ancient wonders, whose histories upon which Holmes took no end of delight in expounding. And, by sheer chance, Holmes also got himself a nice little murder to investigate.</p><p>We’d interviewed the late Linnet Doyle’s maid and were taking a turn round the deck back to our rooms, discussing the clues, real and fabricated. </p><p>Holmes was most keen to find the missing gun, the one which had killed Linnet Doyle, but, after dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, he readily agreed to my suggestion that we take a few minutes to refresh ourselves. I, for one, was eager to don a clean shirt. </p><p>We disappeared into our adjacent cabins with the promise of meeting in five minutes.</p><p>Having changed shirts, I was just adjusting my tie and giving myself a once over in the mirror when I heard soft raps on the wall.</p><p>It was Morse code coming from Holmes’s room.</p><p>…S…O…S…B…A…N…D…</p><p>The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I abandoned the small lavatory and, passing through the sleeping portion of my cabin, grabbed my walking stick and unsheathed the long, thin blade which lay within. </p><p>Without knocking, I hurried into Holmes’s room and to his side. </p><p>Holmes was standing in his own tiny washing nook, by the sink, before the mirror. He was in a pose of deadly stillness except for his eyes which darted anxiously from me to the enormous pale cobra which had risen up to knee-height on the far side of him. </p><p>The animal’s forked tongue flickered.</p><p>It looked ready to spring, but so was I. </p><p>I stabbed the reptile with the skill of a surgeon and the ferocity of a man defending his lower, right through its neck. </p><p>I shook my sword, and the skewered animal fell with a thud in a heavy coiled heap at Holmes’s feet. </p><p>“Thank you for your timely deliverance, Watson,” said Holmes, dabbing his forehead once more. </p><p>“I got your SOS, and I understood that you were being menaced by a snake.”</p><p>“And I am grateful for your perspicacity. Not quite the speckled band of old acquaintance, but a formidable relative.” </p><p>“Indeed. An exceedingly healthy specimen, Holmes, and I daresay it isn’t here by accident.”</p><p>“No. Someone—and that someone has nerves of steel, Watson, you’ll allow this is no common weapon—doesn’t want us to discover the murderer of Linnet Doyle, but they will be disappointed.”</p><p>“The scales will fall from our eyes soon, eh?”</p><p>“Oh, Watson.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. James (Sussex AU. Gen.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> James<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD - Sussex Retirement AU<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>Length:</b> 700<br/><b>For:</b> DW Watson's Woes prompt #13 which was <a href="https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/2068762.html">this photo</a>.<br/><b>Notes:</b> Here's <a href="http://www.danbaines.com/blog/anatomical-study-of-the-common-fairy/19/4/2018">What Watson Saw</a>.<br/><b>Summary:</b> Holmes and Watson go for an early morning ramble in the Sussex woods.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In retirement, Holmes and I exchanged our evening rambles for morning ones. We kept country hours, early to bed and to rise, and so it was we found ourselves one morning traipsing through thick woods near our cottage. It was the hour when dawn was turning into morning, and the light was so lovely filtering through the trees that I made a comment on it more than once to Holmes. He agreed each time. The air seemed crisp with the promise of a new day.</p><p>We paused at a bend in the footpath. Holmes had declared that he had spotted some rare species of mushroom or fungus or some such, and as I did not want to burrow in the undergrowth with him, I told him I would wait. </p><p>He disappeared, and I waited.</p><p>Holmes took his time with his gathering, which gave me a not-unwelcome opportunity to study my environs more closely. I was pleasantly surprised when I spied an unusual stone beside the path. I’d been amassing a small collection of intriguing specimens and keeping them in a jar beside my armchair.</p><p>The rock was a deep violet colour, almost black, but it also had a strange luminescence of its own. It caught that morning light and verily shimmered. If it had not been found beneath so thick a canopy, I would have thought it some kind of dropping from the firmament itself.</p><p>I was looking forward to what Holmes would say about it and perhaps a few of our neighbours, too. </p><p>As light as my heart was at finding this stone, it was in my throat when I spotted the tracks beside the stone.</p><p>I stared. I blinked. I shook my head.</p><p>Was it a trick of the light? </p><p>But, no.</p><p>There were tiny tracks, but they did not appear to be made by any animal, at least any animal that was known to me. No, they appeared to be tiny human tracks made by feet the size of my thumb. </p><p>I looked about. Holmes had not yet returned. I was pleased at this because he was forever ribbing me about my belief in the supernatural. It was easy to deride such beliefs in a city like London but in a more rustic setting, the possibilities seem, well, more possible.</p><p>I didn’t know what kind of creature had made the tracks, but I swore to myself that I was going to do my damnedest to find out!</p><p>I followed them, carefully so as not to disturb them, into the brush. </p><p>Pushing aside a low-hanging limb, I gasped. </p><p>A tiny body! Lying prone on the forest floor! With wings like a dragon fly!</p><p>Spindly arms and legs! Tiny thorny antlers sprouting from its head!</p><p>It was scarcely more than a skeleton covered in a thin layer of grey potter’s clay.</p><p>“Ooooh!” I sighed with abject awe. </p><p>It didn’t appear to be moving. Was it dead? Sleeping? I studied it for a moment, but it didn’t seem to be breathing. No expansion or contraction of the chest. I crouched down and reached a hand out to turn it onto its back. </p><p>“My God!”</p><p>Oh, that face! Like the death mask of a god. Or a poet. Or a king.</p><p>I began to tremble. I felt dizzy. </p><p>Then I heard the giggling. </p><p>Realisation fell like stately pine before the huntsman’s axe. </p><p>“HOLMES!”</p><p>“Have you found something, Watson?”</p><p>“This is you!” I said pointing to the creature as I rose. </p><p>He appeared very pleased with himself. </p><p>“Guilty.” His mirth bubbled over in full-bellied laughter. “I couldn’t help myself. I even painted a rock which I knew would attract your attention.”</p><p>“And the tracks?”</p><p>“A carved rubber stamp.” </p><p>“You weren’t looking for mushrooms.”</p><p>“No, I was waiting for my trap to spring. Are you very cross?”</p><p>I smiled. “No, not really. In fact, I’d like to take it home. Maybe I shall mount him in his own case like a butterfly.”</p><p>“And you call me fantastic.”</p><p>“I’ve never called you fantastic, Holmes. But I am calling you cheeky.”</p><p>“I brought a box,” he patted his satchel, “in case you felt like that.” </p><p>“Does it have a name?”</p><p>“Hmm. Watson’s Fairy?”</p><p>“Or James.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Silence. (Gen. Warning: drug use)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> Silence<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD<br/><b>Characters:</b> Holmes &amp; Watson<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>Length:</b> 200<br/><b>For:</b> DW Watson's Woes prompt #14: The Rest is Silence: Let your work today include a time when silence was essential or the main focus of attention. For example: Holmes staying silent and infuriating Watson; silence waiting for a telegram/phone call; silently waiting for a suspect...<br/><b>Warning:</b> Drug use<br/><b>Summary:</b> Watson waits in silence beside Holmes who has taken something.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He was still. I might’ve called it a preternatural stillness except that it was rather natural, just uncommon in humans. Sometimes animals do take on a perfect stillness. Birds, squirrels, deer. They all have such moments, but I don’t think any of them hold the pose for as long as my friend Holmes. </p><p>His eyes were open, but he could not even really say to be staring. His gaze was vacant. He would not have looked out of place at a madhouse. Or an expensive sanatorium. </p><p>I wondered what he was thinking, where he was in his mind, whether he heard the tick of the mantlepiece clock. </p><p>I did not know exactly what he had taken. I did not know how much of it he had taken or in what manner. The Moroccan case was not on display, but that did not mean it hadn’t been.</p><p>I watched the rise and fall of his chest and pretended to read the afternoon paper and waited.</p><p>Like a nursemaid. Like a prison guard. Like a friend. </p><p>If I’d had somewhere better to be, I told myself, I would have been there.</p><p>And so I waited for his worrisome, looking-glass stillness to shatter.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. The Persistence of Memory. (Sussex. Gen.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> The Persistence of Memory<br/><b>Universe:</b> ACD - Sussex AU<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>Character:</b> Watson<br/><b>Length:</b> 200<br/><b>Warning:</b> Brief mention of suicidal ideation<br/><b>For:</b> DW Watson's Woes prompt #15: 24 is 48: Your prompt today is: time stretches. In honor of this prompt, you have twice as long (48 hours) before the next prompt<br/>appears. Bonus point: Write two entries for this prompt in the 48 hours.<br/><b>Summary:</b> While tending the Sussex garden, Watson reflects on the past.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Time stretches like Mrs. Burke-Jones tabby on the top of the fence. </p><p>It is warm but not yet hot, and I am weeding. I hear Holmes’s whistling across the way, and it hits me forcibly, like a blow to the chest, that I am utterly content and in no hurry whatsoever. </p><p>It has not always been so. I remember wanting my studies to be complete so that I could be a doctor, my training to be complete so that I could be a soldier. When I was convalescing, I remember time stretching out like a tedious passion play. I remember an even crueler stretch of time after Mary’s death and before Holmes’s resurrection when every tick of the clock seemed far too long. I remember questioning my continued existence. </p><p>All I can say is now is not then. I cherish every day that I am able to sink my spade into the soil. I cherish every birdsong and bee hum and gentle opportunity for wonder that comes along. May all the clocks melt where they hang, and may time stretch like Mrs. Burke-Jones tabby on the top of the fence.</p><p>I, like the cat, find myself smiling in the sun. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Wrong! (Watson & Mary. Gen.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> Wrong!<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>Characters:</b> Mary &amp; Watson<br/><b>Length:</b> 100<br/><b>For:</b> DW Watson's Woes prompt #17: Wrong! Have a character discover that he or she remembers a pivotal life event incorrectly.<br/><b>Note:</b> This was going to be the beginning of a poly PWP but I'm not feeling very balls-to-the-walls today.<br/><b>Summary:</b> Mary enlightens her husband about their wedding.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Oh, but that’s not true, John.”</p>
<p>I frowned. “What do you mean, Mary?”</p>
<p>“Mister Holmes did attend our wedding. Don’t you remember the fellow with the big ring of keys and the broom.”</p>
<p>“The spectacled codger in the back who kept fussing with the bunting?”</p>
<p>“And snuck a kiss from the bride?”</p>
<p>I stared at her.</p>
<p>“You didn’t notice the twinkle in his eye?”</p>
<p>“I thought he was drunk! In my experience most church custodians are.” </p>
<p>Mary tut-tutted.</p>
<p>I pretended to drop the subject and return my attention to my breakfast, but in truth I tasted neither toast nor tea.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Good night, sleep tight (Gen.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> Good night, sleep tight<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>Characters:</b> Mrs. Hudson, Watson<br/><b>Length:</b> 200<br/><b>For:</b> DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts #23; The Very Worst Tenant in London: Watson copes with his flatmate, and possibly Mrs. Hudson as well.<br/><b>Summary:</b> The one time Mrs. Hudson appreciated Holmes's experiments.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On afternoon, upon returning to Baker Street, I was greeted by a disconcerting juxtaposition of the familiar and the unfamiliar. </p><p>I heard a familiar BOOM! </p><p>I smelled a familiar wisp of chemical-laden smoke.</p><p>I heard a familiar loud cry, in a landlady-esque voice, “Oh, Mister Holmes!”<br/>
But, in contrast to these recognisable elements, I also noted the very unfamiliar sight of most of my, admittedly meager, assembly of bedroom furnishings in the sitting room arranged in what I thought a rather haphazard manner.</p><p>That was strange. And what was stranger was that I did not see Holmes or Mrs. Hudson. </p><p>I moved toward the stairs just as Mrs. Hudson was descending with a smile on her face. </p><p>This was the strangest of all! Most of the time, Holmes’s more volatile experiments result in frowns, scowls, and rent hikes. </p><p>“Oh, Doctor Watson, for once Mister Holmes’s dabbling in the sciences has done something really splendid.”</p><p>“Oh, really?” I said. “And what is that, pray tell?”</p><p>“A very effective method of fumigating for bedbugs!”</p><p>My eyebrows rose. </p><p>“Oh, dear,” I said as I gazed anxiously upon the stairs and brought a hand slowly to my neck, which had, naturally, begun to itch. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Telephone. (Gen.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> Telephone<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD<br/><b>Length:</b> 300<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>For:</b> DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts #24: The Wonder of the Age: For Victorian Holmes &amp; Watson it was things like telephones and motorcars; for current Sherlocks and John/Joan it’s more likely to be nanotechnology and/or iPhones; 22nd Century Holmes deals with androids and casual Moon travel. (For Sherlock Hound or Basil of Baker Street it’s probably flea powder.) Use or allude to such a modern miracle of the age for whatever age you choose.<br/><b>Summary:</b> Holmes abhors the telephone.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><a id="cutid1" name="cutid1"></a><br/>Intuition told me to climb the seventeen steps with quiet, cat-like tread. I reached the sitting room only to find the curtains drawn, though it was still daylight, and Holmes extended on the sofa with a cloth draped over his eyes. The room was maddeningly silent and still. I realised that even the clock had been halted in its ticking.<br/><br/>My first concern as a doctor and as a friend was illness or, I had to admit, perhaps a return to the pernicious habit of old. <br/><br/>“Watson,” said Holmes in low, grave voice, “invention is precursor to madness.” <br/>“Indeed?” I replied softly. “Any invention in particular?”<br/><br/>“The telephone.”<br/><br/>“Oh,” I answered with a knowing nod. “It does require some time to accustom oneself to it,” my eyes went instinctively to the machine, “but it is a wonder. I mean, in terms of crime solving alone…”<br/><br/>“I am accustomed to it,” Holmes interjected. “And I recognise its advantages in a thousand fields, but I am wondering, today specifically, if the price of its magic might be too high.” <br/><br/>“How so?” <br/><br/>“Because some people are far, far too accustomed to it. It can be, in the wrong hands, a device of pure torture.” <br/><br/>I frowned. “Some people?”<br/><br/>“Mycroft!” Holmes exclaimed. He rose up from his recumbent position and then fell back as if the ejaculation had taken the life force from him. “My brother has had an instrument installed in his home. I have received six—six!—calls from him today. That is three times the conversations I’ve had, or desired to have, with him in the last six months.” <br/><br/>The end of this lament was punctuated with by unholy ring.<br/><br/>Holmes wailed. “Tell him I’ve died! Again!”<br/><br/>I chuckled and moved towards the apparatus. “I shall deal with him. Don’t worry.” </p>
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<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Blackberries. (ACD Sussex. Holmes/Watson. Gen.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> Blackberries<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD - Sussex<br/><b>Length:</b> 300<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>For:</b> DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts #25: Food, Glorious Food: Have food (or its absence) figure in some way today.<br/><b>Summary:</b> Holmes finds Watson sleeping in a hammock after blackberry picking.</p>
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    <p>Though almost noiseless, my approach scattered the winged, tuft-tailed, and otherwise crawling bandits from the scene of pillage. I had to admire their collective stealth—their mark was, amazingly, still asleep, wholly unaware of the commencement of the siege around him. </p>
<p>I gave the contents of the reed-woven container on the ground a long appraising look and decided that I could not fault the bandits’ taste in plunder, either.<br/>I smiled at the bucolic tableau, which, had it been a painting might have been called, An Ancient and Noble Gardener at Rest beside a Basket of Blackberries. </p>
<p>I knew that Watson and I had caused a minor titter in the village when word got round of our installing a suspicious, in their eyes, Mediterranean-looking, also called by some ‘foreign,’ hammock on the farthest and shadiest edge of our domain, but a few odd looks and a couple of impertinent questions were a small price to pay for the enjoyment and satisfaction the hammock brought Watson and myself on fine summer afternoons such as that one. </p>
<p>That afternoon, Watson had done very well blackberry picking if the many dark violet-coloured stains and smears on his lips and moustache and fingertips were any testament. There was also the evidence of the basket itself, which held an abundant measure; the birds and the bunnies and their brethren had not, evidently, carried off the lot.</p>
<p>I had no wish to disturb Watson’s slumber, but I also did not want to lose any more of his hard-earned treasure to opportunistic marauders, and so I picked up the basket, helped myself to a few—they really were excellent, plump and sweet and rich—and shuffled quietly back to the cottage, leaving in my wake the buzz and hum, twitter and snore, of the late summer afternoon. </p>
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<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Duh-duh. (Gen.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> Duh-duh, duh-duh-duh-duh, duh-duh<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD<br/><b>Length:</b> 200<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen - crack<br/><b>For:</b> DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts #26: Good Old Index: Holmes' index is full of suggestive entries, including but not limited to Victor Lynch, the forger, a venomous lizard or gila, and Vittoria, the circus belle. Take one as a starting point, or make up your own!<br/><b>Summary:</b> Holmes receives a gift from the Mexican ambassador.</p>
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    <p><a id="cutid1" name="cutid1"></a><br/>“This is a handsome addition to the tantalus, Holmes,” I said as I lifted the bottle and studied its exterior. <br/><br/>“Yes, it is,” agreed Holmes. “It’s a gift from the Mexican ambassador in gratitude for the assistance I provided on that very interesting case last week. You remember, don’t you?”<br/><br/>“It isn’t something one forgets easily!” I retorted with a chuckle as I removed the cork and sniffed. “Potent stuff, Holmes, if the singed fibres of my nostrils don’t deceive me.”<br/><br/>“You’re correct. It’s a spirit distilled from the blue agave plant which grows, among other places, in the central western state of Jalisco. It’s best served with cut lime, or so I understand. The gentleman was generous enough to provide us with some.” He gestured to the bag beside the bottle. <br/><br/>I stood with my back to Holmes while I removed a penknife from my pocket and a lime from the bag. <br/><br/>Holmes prattled on as I worked.<br/><br/>“…if you do not publish a monograph on the matter, Watson, I feel I must. A venomous lizard….”<br/><br/>“Look, Holmes,” I turned abruptly around with two sections of lime sticking down from my gums like fangs, “I’m a TEQ-GILA monster! Rrrr!” </p>
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<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Time Stretches (Gen.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> Time Stretches<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>Length:</b> 300<br/><b>For:</b> DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompt #16 (which is just #15 x 2): 24 is 48: Your prompt today is: time stretches. In honor of<br/>this prompt, you have twice as long (48 hours) before the next prompt appears. Bonus point: Write two entries for this prompt in the 48 hours.<br/><b>Summary:</b> In the early days sharing rooms in Baker Street, Watson gets caught out daydreaming.</p>
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    <p>“What?” I asked sharply and winced at my own tone.</p>
<p>Mister Holmes’s expression told me I had been asked a question.</p>
<p>“Undoubtedly,” I mumbled. “Just so.” </p>
<p>Mister Holmes’s new expression told me my reply had been nonsensical. </p>
<p>My face warmed. </p>
<p>“My shoulder is making me peevish,” I lied. “I’m very sorry, Mister Holmes.”</p>
<p>“Not at all,” responded my fellow lodger cordially. “But I would’ve thought our recent spate of dry weather might have eased that discomfiture.”</p>
<p>Christ, I’d been caught out—twice!</p>
<p>“You were daydreaming, Doctor.”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Deeply.” </p>
<p>“Yes, it’s a habit I’ve developed of late, and when I find myself interrupted by reality, I am sometimes unreasonably cross. Time stretches when one is adrift as well as confined. My health does not allow me the physical freedom I’d wish, and my circumstances mean that I feel no real kinship with most of the world. They are living their lives, naturally, without concern for me, and I am living my life, if you can call it that, without, and here my confession continues, much concern for them. I feel both trapped and unmoored. Captive and disenfranchised. My apology is genuine, though.”</p>
<p>“You’ve suffered a great deal of late. You’re convalescing, neither engaging in the life you were accustomed to nor creating the one you’d wish to have. I, for one, can’t blame you for escaping to a world in which you have more control and, frankly, more interest.” </p>
<p>“Well, that’s extremely generous and open of you.”</p>
<p>“Would you care to share your reverie? I find myself keen for a yarn.” </p>
<p>“Oh, you know. Villains, heroes, adventure, danger narrowly averted, puzzles solved, justice served.” </p>
<p>“Puzzles?”</p>
<p>“Yes.” </p>
<p>He hummed thoughtfully. “If we can convince Mrs. Hudson to oblige us with some tea, I’d love to hear more. Let us stretch time together.”  </p>
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<a name="section0020"><h2>20. New Client (ACD & Wonder Woman)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> New Client<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD - Crossover with <i>Wonder Woman</i> [film, 2017]<br/><b>Length:</b> 400<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>For: </b>DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts #27: Scan the Shelves For Ten Seconds: You have 10 seconds. Look over your collection of other books, movies, TV-show compilations, etc. (Or sweep through your electronic library at top speed.) You have 10 seconds to pick one item. Now add something from that work into your offering – a setting, a plot-point, one of the characters. ("Watson, this dead man is marked with a mockingjay.")<br/><b>Note:</b> If anyone's keen to see it, here is my <a href="https://stonepicnicking-okapi.dreamwidth.org/118231.html">shelfie</a>.<br/><b>Characters:</b> Holmes, Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Antiope<br/><b>Summary:</b> A new client shows up at Baker Street.</p>
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    <p>“A client to see you, Mister Holmes.”<br/>
<br/>
Holmes and I exchanged a glance. It was rare that a client could have our landlady in such a titter.<br/>
<br/>
“Please show her up at once, Mrs. Hudson,” said Holmes.<br/>
<br/>
“How did you know it was a ‘she’?” I asked when the door had closed.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, Watson. You know my methods. Would any ‘he’ have caused such perturbation in that good woman?”<br/>
<br/>
My protest was cut short by heavy, very heavy, tread on the stairs. The tread was so heavy that I wondered if we were not about to be visited by a hulking monster of some kind. I even had the fleeting idea I should locate my gun, but then the door swung open, and Mrs. Hudson’s tremulous voice announced,<br/>
<br/>
“Miss Antiope to see you, Mister Holmes.”<br/>
<br/>
I stared. Holmes stared.<br/>
<br/>
Then he and I both got clumsily to our feet.<br/>
<br/>
Mrs. Hudson, for the first time in that good woman’s life, I suspected, <em>curtsied</em> and left the room.<br/>
<br/>
“Good morning, sir,” said a deep, commanding voice.<br/>
<br/>
The creature who towered before us was like none I’d ever see before in my life. She had long blonde hair, carved features, and as determined a countenance as was ever chiseled from stone. She was dressed in some kind of form-fitting dark brown armour which included windows revealing bare swathes of very bronze skin at the thigh. Her boots and a small headdress were of the same material. It was a leather, I realised, but one that had received a singular tanning. It looked incredibly strong. The musculature of the lady’s arms, like the rest of her, was notably developed and defined, and her shoulders might have been as large as my head.<br/>
<br/>
She was, I could not doubt it, a fierce and formidable warrior.<br/>
<br/>
I gawked silently, but Holmes gathered his wits more swiftly and did better.<br/>
<br/>
“Please, have a seat and tell me your problem, Miss Antiope.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m looking for my niece. She’s run away. I think she might be here in London.”<br/>
<br/>
Well, if she’s anything like her aunt, I thought, she’ll be fairly easy to find.<br/>
<br/>
“You are from…”<br/>
<br/>
“The island of Themyscira.”<br/>
<br/>
“The index, Watson, the T’s,” said Holmes with a wave of the hand.<br/>
<br/>
I huffed and went to the shelf.<br/>
<br/>
Missing niece, indeed, this lady, whoever she was, was only missing an elephant to ride in upon!</p>
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<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Dialgoue (ACD. Omegaverse> Rating: Teen)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> Dialogue<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD - Omegaverse<br/><b>Rating:</b> Teen<br/><b>Length:</b> 300<br/><b>Pairing:</b> Alpha!Holmes/Omega!Watson<br/><b>Notes:</b> Dialogue only. Mention of heat. <br/><b>For:</b> DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts #28: An Interesting Dialogue: Take inspiration today from the following lines: "I can explain!" "Is that so? Well, you are the writer amongst us, so I look forward to your tale Watson."<br/><b>Summary:</b> Alpha Holmes finds Omega Watson in a summerhouse.</p>
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    <p>“Oh, so there you are.”</p><p>"I can explain!" </p><p>"Is that so? Well, you are the writer between us, so I look forward to your tale, Watson."</p><p>“You found me in Sir Clive’s summerhouse…”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“…with my trousers down…”</p><p>“Yes?”<br/>“…and the small end of a croquet mallet inserted into a rather delicate part of my anatomy…”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“…because I was so excited about the resolution of the case and the safe return of Sir Clive’s daughter to the bosom of her family…”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“…that I was moved to tears, but being a private man, I didn’t want to display my emotion in front of the family…”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“…so I hied to this quiet corner in which to weep for joy, but in my weeping…”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“…I began to rock back and forth and my trousers caught the hook of a rusty nail and ripped and fell…”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“…and then I had the royal misfortune to trip…”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“…and I was just about to un-impale myself when I was startled once more by your arrival and fell back down upon it…”</p><p>“Ah, yes.”</p><p>“…so you see, that’s all it is.”</p><p>“Well, I’ll return to the main house and give version of that, and then I return and take you to the old gamekeeper’s cottage, the use of which Sir Clive has generously offered us. We can weather your heat together there.”</p><p>“Oh, Holmes!”</p><p>“Your lips and your mind are very good at telling tales, my dear Watson, but your scent is also. I’ll go and make explanations. You remain cosy with your cricket bat...”</p><p>“Croquet mallet!”</p><p>“Precisely, and then I’ll return and we can go together to the cottage. I’ll see if I can get a dogcart for our bags. And then I’ll take very good care of you.”</p><p>“Thank goodness.”   </p>
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<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Montague Street. (Gen. POV Holmes.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> Montague Street<br/><b>'Verse:</b> ACD<br/><b>Length:</b> 400<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gens<br/><b>For:</b> DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts #31: And To Think That It Happened On Montague Street: Whether it involves Holmes' old rooms or just the general location, include Montague Street somehow in today's work.<br/><b>Summary:</b> Passing by Montague Street, Holmes contemplates the path his life has taken.</p>
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    <p>It isn’t often that my path takes me by the section of Montague Street where I lived before Baker Street, but this day it did. Maybe I’d been there before and not noticed. Maybe I’d noticed and not cared. But today, I was there and noticed and cared. Sort of.</p>
<p>As illogical and irrational as it was, I played the what-if game.<br/>What if I’d never left Montague Street? Would I be who I was today? Would I be the same detective? The same man? Would I even be alive?<br/>I looked up at the windows on the first and second floor. None of them used to be mine. If I’d been able to afford a window, I wouldn’t have been living on Montague Street. </p>
<p>I conjured up a different me, a me who’d been too stubborn or too afraid to change, unwilling to take a chance or to move. I saw this fellow coming out of the door and heading down the pavement.</p>
<p>Where was he going, this me? </p>
<p>I couldn’t say, but a chill ran up my spine just as he brushed my shoulder, heading off toward the main road, lost in a labyrinth of thought. <br/>My feet remembered and took me to the alley, the one with the one clean brick upon which lean a shoulder. I sank my hand in my pocket and brushed something hard and slightly unfamiliar.</p>
<p>Oh!</p>
<p>I fished another man’s cigarette case out of my pocket. </p>
<p>I put the Bradley’s of Oxford Street between my lips and stifled a smile.</p>
<p>I struck a lucifer against the stone and held the flame to the tip of the cigarette. I shook out the flame and dropped the devil to the ground. I took the cigarette between two fingers.<br/>I did the whole dance as if it weren’t alone, as if it weren’t my cigarette that I was lighting at all. I did it as if there were dark eyes, a square jaw, a thick moustache right there. </p>
<p>I smoked the whole thing thinking of one thing.</p>
<p>Watson. </p>
<p>I realised that if I’d stayed in Montague Street, there’d be a Watson-sized hole in my life. </p>
<p>And that wouldn’t do.</p>
<p>Not at all. </p>
<p>I finished the cigarette, dropped it, and ground it out with my heel. I gave the place on Montague Street one final look, knowing I was much the better for leaving it behind. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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